Blood Between Us
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Jessica Moore, one drink changes your fate. Jess/Lenore, past Jess/Sam


Prompt: Written to fill my "2nd Person POV" bingo square at spnspiration (though it probably fills other prompts as well) and my "Jess/Lenore" square at the spnpairingbingo.

A/N: And now for something completely different! Well, for me at least. I've written, err, one femmeslash in the past (and to be honest, this one could be take as just a friendship/bond), and then it's in 2nd person. Surprisingly, the POV wasn't that difficult. I 'think' this story came out as I envisioned.

* * *

><p>Jessica Moore, one drink changes your fate.<p>

You order the drink on the night you die, but you're unaware of your own mortality when you ask the waitress to tack on an order of chili fries. Then you think Sam would sneer at said fries and make that adorable face he always makes when you order the cheapest, greasiest thing on the menu after a bad day. That face he makes before he looks off, remembering something, and his smile fades completely. Sam's not here to make any faces, though. Which is the problem. A problem you told yourself (and him) wasn't a real problem. But it is.

So, here you are. You baked Sam's favorite cookies earlier in the afternoon, while you were eating dinner alone. While you were worrying about his family, the one that's been seemingly nonexistent until this weekend. For some reason, you toss out your plans to watch TV and down a half dozen cookies while pacing the bedroom and waiting for your guy to finally come home and give you an explanation for not giving you any explanations.

Instead you slip on jeans, a jacket, and you head out the door and toward your favorite hang out.

"_Take that, Sam Winchester."_

Part of you hopes he comes home while you're gone, feels how you feel. Part of you doesn't care if he picks up on the passive aggressive vibes so long as he loves his damn cookies and holds you close while you're sleeping.

You're thinking of calling again, even though he's already called, already assured you he'll be home, when you hear his name spoken in a high-pitched and slurring voice. It's a girl from the psych class you and Sam took together, Trudy Something. Minutes earlier Trudy Something was singing karaoke with her sorority sisters, but now, thanks to beer-fluence, she remembers you and thinks the two of you were BFFs. And she's asking about your hot boyfriend and if he's still your boyfriend and if he's available.

What you don't notice:

The man who's been watching you all night is not a man. He wants you, but his tastes change when he hears Trudy Something say the name Sam Winchester. Lust turns. He hates. He hates. Not you really, just the name. Winchester. It reminds him of someone. And he acts, because it's his nature.

He slips past the waitress, his fingernails digging into his own palm. The wounds heal before he's out the door, but a few drops of red are sinking into the foam of your beer.

There's a hint of them in the amber, and if the lighting was better, if your mind wasn't elsewhere, if you knew to look...if, if, if...

But you don't notice.

You take a few drinks and leave and feel nauseous but still alive when you get home and shower. Your thoughts keep you from noticing the way your blood is humming through your body.

You change into a bed gown you know he loves, and you're moving to the door when you hear the first knock. Second knock gives you pause. Sam probably forgot his keys. But it's Brady standing outside when you open the door.

What you do notice:

There's a smell. What is that smell? It's something rotten and familiar. It seems so strong now. It's coming from Brady. His smile looks dangerous when you invite him inside.

You notice something is wrong with him; he doesn't notice something is wrong with you. His eyes change, and you're not strong enough yet to fight him off. When you're staring down at Sam. When you're bleeding. When you're dying. Then, you believe in your own mortality. You believe it'll all end soon, so you spare your last prayer on Sam instead of yourself.

But this is not an end. It's a beginning.

* * *

><p>Later, you tell yourself you blacked out those first few weeks. You don't remember being a monster. You don't remember waking up in agony but not having enough lungs left to scream. Being in the ashes, a pitiful burned out thing, knowing well enough to slither away and hide because you should be dead and anything not dead was wrong.<p>

You don't remember the taste of blood on your tongue or the way that random student's eyes widened in fear when they saw the 'thing' ripping open their throat. You don't remember running, hiding, fear and shame and hunger all keeping you far from Sam. Even though you want every bit of him. But Sam is gone. Far gone by the time you get a reign on the beast you've become.

Vampire. You're a vampire. It's the term that fits the best with the teeth, the blood, the way the sun stings even if it doesn't make you burst into flame. You don't know how you became one. Why would someone do this? Why?

You don't know if you're alive or dead or...if you're evil. You must be, you think, but after the guilt becomes too much, you realize that if you're evil, that doesn't mean you have to do evil things.

You are alone. So alone.

You make your way to the graveyard one day, find the tombstone with your name on it. It's already been carved and put up, but it's just marking ground because nothing is down there. This is a place for memories to rest, not your body. Your parents must have insisted on this, even after the firefighters said the blames burned too hot, destroyed too much of you (wrong, wrong, wrong).

Seeing your name there is enough. It's time to move on.

You leave California behind.

* * *

><p>The burns heal completely. It amazes you, how humans can look right into your eyes and see a pretty girl instead of a monster.<p>

* * *

><p>The man screams at you. Screams, throws rocks at you, and calls you a freak, but he doesn't seem to realize what a freak you actually are yet. What he sees is some drugged out kid cutting open his horse. Too dark to see the blood dripping off your lips, and you're too hungry to notice that you're thinking red thoughts, even as your fingers pet the still animal's mane.<p>

You used to love horses when you were a little girl. Still do. There's a part of you that knows you're going to feel worse about the horse than the man come morning.

You want to stop. You want to stop. You want to stop.

You're mid-lunge when arms wrap around you in a vice. You think they're cables, they're so tight, so unrelenting. They pull you away, into the shadows, and the screaming man tries to follow and gives up.

You're still too hungry to fear for your life, to fear the owner of those arms pulling you into the woods.

"Shh, calm down. We'll get you something to eat soon. You don't have to be this."

The voice is a woman's, and she doesn't sound like she's lying. There it is, the distraction your blood lust needs. You quit fighting her, and she drops you to the ground. You sit there long enough to catch her scent, to know. She's like you.

The woman takes a knee, catches your chin with cold fingertips. Her eyes are dreamer's eyes, but they're honest, sincere.

"My name's Lenore," she says.

"Jess."

She smiles softly. "Jess," she repeats, as if memorizing it. Her fingers intertwine with yours. It looks as if she's merely holding your hand, but she's strong. She's making sure you don't run. "Let's get you cleaned up, Jess. Then we should talk."

"I wanted to kill him," you say. A warning.

Lenore smiles softly. "But you didn't," she reminds.

It sounds like the most important sentence in the world.

* * *

><p>The nest moves, drifts. They have their reasons for what they do, what they hunt. Some want to adapt, survive in a dangerous time. Some want to do better. To be better. You aren't sure what you want exactly. All you know is that you're too hungry to stay.<p>

But Lenore won't let you leave.

"I know what you want," she assures.

You tell her about Sam Winchester one night, while she's holding you. Lenore is very quiet after. "Sam sounds like a special man," she says, finally.

And then she holds her wrist against your mouth and lets you drink. You're young, she tells you, you need this, even if her dead blood leaves you dazed and weak. You feel her inside you, and you think maybe being better and surviving is the same motive for you. Because you're not sure if you can survive without Lenore, and she makes you better.

* * *

><p>She leaves you in a cabin. Alone. A few months. To cleanse. There's something wrong with the excuse, but you don't push it.<p>

When she comes back, she smells like Sam. You know his blood was on her skin. You fight, you scream, your teeth rip through her neck, but she lets you get out your anger, rubs circles on your back as you suckle the torn skin. And then she tells you how she met Sam, his brother too. How he's surviving without you. How he's more than you ever knew.

It's not what you want to hear, but it's what you need to hear.

"Don't leave me alone again," you say. You don't say: not for Sam, not for the next vampire to cross your path, not for anyone.

"Never again," Lenore promises.

* * *

><p>You are Jessica Moore. You were murdered twice in one night. You were born from the ashes into a monster. You are not evil, but you might never claim to be good again. There is blood on your hands, and the scent of a hunter in your past. You will always hunger.<p>

Your story is not exactly a happy one, but there is also a distinct lack of worry where 'ever after' is concerned.


End file.
